T u r b u l e n t
by TheDoloresSuicides
Summary: She was mentally unstable, stuck in her wonderland in her dreams. Heartbroken, abused and haunted by her past-life gave her a second chance which led to him, the man she grew old with and loves every single day.


The first time I tried to commit suicide was when I was 6.

You couldn't blame me. I was only 6, but I had experienced things girls my age would call horrific and traumatising. I saw how my mother worked, littering the streets with her vivid green eyes and red, chapped lips. I saw how my father seemed to hurt my mother, pulling her hair before feeling my skin with his fat, dry fingers. The pain and the fear was to unreal, I had grabbed the sharpest thing I could reach and slit my wrists.

The mark is still there. If you look closely enough, but it's faded anyway.

I woke up the next day, terrified and confused with a pool of blood near me. My wound was covered in a pathetic excuse of a bandage, with my sobbing mother in the corner. After that she curled up in a ball, and I exhaled her scent-blood, vanilla and cigarettes. Later on that evening, father came, all happy and cheerful but when he saw the bruise on my wrist-he kicked my mother, screaming at her for being so careless with his 'baby doll'.

It seemed like everything was just falling apart, like broken shards of glass. Everything was clear to me now, and I hated the ugly truth, hated the sight of my reflection in the mirror-my dad sexually abused me, my mother was a drug addict, somebody who took drugs to forget the pain and the sorrow. Not that I blame my mother, she was such a tragic heroine, sometimes she even reminds me of Ophelia.

I never knew how close my mother was to death. She seemed to linger between that faint blur of dreams and reality. She saw my father as a kind, gentle man rather than the monster he was and lived in a golden palace by the seaside in her mind. It was too much for her to cope then, and I never saw the wonderland that was in her mind. The next day she hung herself, the very day where I wanted to ask her what her wonderland was like.

If I did catch a glimpse of her wonderland.

I think it would be beautiful.

* * *

The asylum ward was damp, cold and smelt of drugs, fuel and chemicals.

"...what we have here is a dreamer, when she fell-she probably thought she could fly..."

The second time I tried to commit suicide was when I was 14. A young teenager, who stays late every night and dreams. I lived in that blur between dreams and reality, just like my mother and people said I had an Ivory Towe Syndrome. But it didn't matter, my wonderland was a haven, a sanctuary, a relief and an escape from the brutal world we lived in. I wanted to badly to wake up one day and find that everything was a dream-until I discovered drugs.

Drugs were a bad thing. A very, very bad thing.

But they weren't. They washed away my pain, the memories and even though it was for the breifest moment-they gave me sweet salvation and hope until I would pass out. By the time my adoptive parents discovered I was an addict, they immediatly threw me inside an asylum ward. Not that I cared-their house was happy, bright and clean, whereas I was broken, sad and dirty. I was forced to wear cotton asylum jumpsuits and socks. Disposable, just like me.

I attended meetings and various therapists, who always seem to cry after I tell them my life story. But when I was locked away in my tiny cell, I would sleep and run far, far away to wonderland. A place where my beautiful mother didn't need to sell her body, a place where abusive fathers never even existed. Every night it seemed like I would come alive, laughing and running with a mother that only existed in my dreams.

People called me a dreamer. I wouldn't blame them, every time I looked in a mirror I would have this faraway, dazed look in my eyes-to show that I was somewhere else then this ugly fortress. But after three weeks, I was healthier, much more stable with fine, thick hair and rosy cheeks. I was adopted again, by a kind lady who couldn't have children of her own-whom I loved and cherished with all my broken heart she mended.

* * *

The first time I ever saw him was straight after I tried to kill myself. Which resulted into a fail.

My adoptive mother died. Of cancer, just yesterday when I had recieved the news. I was 16 then, a failure and a loser at school. People always bullied me, and their haunting words would remind me of my father. It was horrible, how people could be such sadists and release their anger on me-why? Because I didn't have the right clothes, or the gadgets or the 'look'. But when I received the news during break time at school, I snapped and I snuck out.

I reached the edge of a cliff. We lived near the seaside, where it was warm, where the sand went through your toes and the water seemed to melt in your skin. But today, the wind was ruthless and sharp, the sand bitter and rough and the water icy waves crashing agaisnt the slimy, wet rocks. I was so close then, so close but I couldn't do it-I was a coward, a loser. After that I never stepped on that beach again, afraid that suicidal thoughts would torment me so much I would jump off the cliff.

My only instinct was to run. So I ran, in my crumpled uniform to town where I sat in the cafe and ignored the looks the elderly gave me. I sat on the booth, nearby the window where steaming tea was placed in front of me. I stared out of the window, watching people pass by with various looks on their faces-all happy, bright and cheerful. I felt sick to my stomach, wanting to march into the graveyard and scream at my father's grave.

Why? Why couldn't you give me a normal childhood?

But the thought almost made me bitterly laugh. And that was when I saw him. A ray of sunshine, a streak of golden rays in my bleak world. With startling, beautiful ocean-blue eyes, tanned, warm skin and thick, golden locks. He reminded me of an angel, and I swear I saw him before- a faded, distant memory that I refused to recall because I was frightened what would follow it. He stared at me, his eyes large at the sight of me when he saw my form.

"S-Sakura?"

* * *

It turns out that I did meet Naruto before.

We meet in the rough neighbourhood. He was parentless all his life, I was abused all my life. We instantly became friends, like brothers and sisters-always looking out for one another. But it seemed like everything changed, because my mother met my father, fell hopelessly in love and decided we would have to live in Kirigakure. I screamed and cried, hugging Naruto with such fierce passion he cried himself.

He promised me he'd find me. And he did.

It turns out his school was in Kirigakure for a school trip. He went to Konoha High School, a beautiful place I might add-full of balmy, shady oak trees and kind, wrinkled elderly villagers. Naruto begged me to go with him, but I was scared, so frightened. He had a life, a life that promised him success in the future-a life full of love, hope and compassion. I was frightened I would be his downfall, that he'd only want me to go because he pitied me.

I hate pity. Loathe it as much as my father.

So I declined his invitation, right in that cafe where several of his friends were-behind him. They gave me curios looks, before they all headed out of my misreable life. But he had left me his number anyway, a crumpled piece of paper in front of me. I stared at it for a few seconds, before collecting my things as I ran outside in a fit. I took several pills that night, before drinking down a bottle of water and passing out on the floor.

It hurt, it hurt so much the next day I slit my wrists and lived in my house for the next two months. Not caring, not giving two shits about my life. I thought I was fresh, a rebirth and a clean slate where I could start all over again. And all it took was holding Naruto's hand and sneaking inside the school bus. But I threw it away, I threw away the piece of paper with his number in the bin and I threw my life away.

* * *

Second time I saw him was when I finally arrived at Konoha.

I was 18 then, an art student who aced the scholarship exams in Konoha Fine Arts. I wanted to be a children's book illustrator. That afternoon, I was hopelessly thinking of Naruto, right in front of his beautiful house where the windows were open-letting inside a blast of warm air. I was so nervous and scared, constantly turning around and leaving before coming back again. I had to confront him, I had to tell him. Tell him I loved him.

So I knocked the door, practising the words on what I was going to say when a dazzling girl with soft, jet black hair and a large, swollen stomach opened the door. There was a young kid next to her, with the same black hair and wide blue eyes. I instantly knew, and I could hear it-my heart ripping to shreds like paper before I stammered sorry, spun around and ran as fast as I could. The pain and the raw, savage emotion was too much for me to handle anymore.

In this beautiful, peaceful place of Konoha-I felt like a glitch. I didn't belong here, who was I kidding? Anybody could tell Naruto had forgotten his broken, once best friend and married a woman who was far beautiful then me and have a child. I didn't cry that night in my apartment, instead I fell asleep and dreamt. Dreamt of golden palaces by the seaside, dreamt of sweet salvation, hope and compassion. Dreamt of things I never had, and never will.

The next day, I woke up with a determined face. I would move on, I would become succesful. I didn't need anybody, I didn't need love. I only needed success, wealth and fame. That was the turning point of my life, where I had marched into Konoha Fine Arts university and studied with deep passion until my five years were up. After that, I moved away from Konoha, packing my things as I headed to my next destination.

* * *

Paris is such a beautiful city.

At daylight, you could explore the pleasures and divine beauty of the city. At night, you could watch a million buildings lit up-like golden fireflies. By the time I got there, I instantly got a job with this woman called Kurenai. She was my manager, took care of the calls various authors gave me, begging me to illustrate their books. I was succesful by the time two months had passed, my creative mind was worshipped worldwide and my art work exhibited in various musuems.

I managed to buy a house. It was such a beautiful piece of art. Whimsical and romantic, which seemed to fit my personality brilliantly. As a children's book illustrator, I was allowed to dream as much as I wanted, if it meant that I produced such fine art work. The money came rolling in, increasing each year as my dreams became more vivid, more realistic. I felt like a child, helplessly trapped in an unreal illusion.

My success was envied at. My downfall was planned, but failed. My dreams always saved me, kept feeding me with such beautiful illusions I transformed into the piece of paper, before I would send it off to the author. I lived a simple life, ignoring Kurenai's hints on settling down and having kids. The idea terrified me-what if the man I married turned out to be abusive, just like my father?

Of course, Kurenai never knew my past. And I would never let her.

I was ashamed of it. Ashamed of my previous actions, but fate had been kind to me and gave me salvation and success-something I dreamt of the minute I stepped into Paris. The city was my source of inspiration, you could look at the bigger picture and be blown away by the sheer beauty-or you could focus on the smaller details that could spread warmth across your heart. My illustrations gave me money, hope, pride and honour.

But the creative mind is such a fragile place.

* * *

I was 23 when I finally exploded.

My dreams were nothing to me now. Dull, boring and unrealistic. It turned out that my own mind gave me the downfall. Not the pressure or the deadlines or the constant phone calls. But my mind. It exploded, shattering into a grand display before I found myself locked up in my room, crying and sobbing.

I had finally lost it. My creative mind was too much now, too much to handle. If I close my mind, I could see it-my wonderland tearing itself apart from the inside, breaking and screaming in agony and pain. That was when Kurenai sent me to a holiday, off to Barcelona where she prayed to whatever God was out there that I could return to Paris-a new, fresh person. So I did, I went off to Barcelona.

The news circulated headlines of my downfall, managing to find files of my asylum ward papers. Every single author I had illustrated turned their backs on me, sneering and shreiking with laughter at my failure. I couldn't stand it anymore, so that holiday seemed to be the cure. Because it changed my life, it gave me hope and salvation. Suddenly, I didn't need to rely on my wonderland anymore. Because my dreams had come alive.

* * *

I met Sasuke in the cafe.

He was a jerk. An ass. An arrogant bastard. A selfish and rich boy who couldn't care less about people's suffering. But it seemed like some sort of twisted fate had brought us together. I realized he was just as shattered as I was, broken with a distant childhood and a brother who never came back to collect him. I gave him the unspoken comfort he craved for, and in return I had opened up my heart inch by inch and told him my story.

After that, everything was a blur of happiness. Those long nights, curled up in the bed, running barefoot across the fields, feeling the air cool your skin and calm your nerves. Everything was so beautiful, so perfect. And I was scared, frightened that I would wake up one day and realize that everything was a dream. But it wasn't, and never will. After five months of our relationship, Sasuke married me. It was a private affair, with just us together in the beach.

I decided not to go back to Paris. It turned out that Kurenai quit her job, and was now a mother of Asuma's baby. Instead, I lived the rest of my life in Venice with Sasuke. Kurenai and Asuma often came to visit for a holiday, and then I fell pregnant. It was a joyous occasion, my beautiful, beautiful son in my weak arms with Sasuke sitting down next to me, stroking my hair and kissing my forehead.

And that was when I decided that no matter how broken, how scarred and how mentally unstable you were.

Everybody deserved a second chance. I look at my reflection and I don't hate what I see, instead I love it. I loved how fate had brought us together, how my beautiful son warmed my heart and how my husband loved me so much I could taste it. My life was complete, I didn't need my wonderland anymore, or my dreams.

Because I had everything I always dreamt of. And I promised myself to be the best wife and mother there is. Because when I look at my son's eyes, see the innocence and softness in them, I loved him so much I sheltered him each day, watched as he grew older until I found myself sitting in a chair in the balcony, old and withered with the man I love next to me and my son I cherished and adored sitting on the other side of me, holding his wife's hand who was pregnant.

I was having a grandchildren. And me and Sasuke could have never been so proud in our entire lives.

Fin

* * *

I finished it. This will never be continued. I was inspired by this article about a drug addict, but who grew up and changed her image, settled down with a man and had a beautiful child. Please review!


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